Odds and Ends
by Tam Cranver
Summary: Not so much one large story as several smaller ones; thus far, all have been for challenges on the Firefly Friday Livejournal community. Rating for harsh language and sexual content.
1. Polarization

Disclaimer: The characters in this piece belong to Joss Whedon, not to me. Though I am using them without permission, I'm not making any money off of it—I'm in it for my own satisfaction.

Author's note: My first ever ff_Friday piece, this story is to answer Challenge 15, about virtue and vice. 

***

They say patience is a virtue, but River knows better. The seven cardinal virtues are hope, faith, love, charity, temperance, fortitude, and justice. Patience is just waiting in the dark for the clouds to clear and Simon to come. And yet, the world now seems full of new virtues, growing like weeds in the cracks in her mind. Perhaps patience is one of them.

River used to be able to tell between virtue and vice. The line between them was as clear as the difference between dark and light. But since they branded her with their mark and burned the undesirable shades of understanding from her mind, it is as if the world has shifted half a step to the right, a polarizing filter blocking all her light. They've tried to teach her the new ways. Virtue is sitting quietly and eating her food and taking Simon's medicines without complaint. Vice is making noise and throwing things and picking up the gun.

But when Kaylee was huddled, frightened, and the evil men were shooting at her, then picking up the gun was a virtue. Different gun, but shouldn't the same principles hold true regardless of manufacture? River knows the seven deadly sins: Wrath, gluttony, avarice, sloth, pride, lust, envy. Where does picking up the gun fall in? Is it better or worse than peeling the labels off the soup cans? 

River's mind is sharper than ever. She has retained every piece of knowledge she ever learned, in the Academy or otherwise. But none of it makes any sense. Nothing she knows tells her what to do, and she is overwhelmed by confusion. The shades between good and evil are difficult to discern. She thought slashing Jayne with the knife was good, because he was filled with plans of betrayal and his outfit was lacking in color, but it turned out to be evil. She thought stealing was bad—she'd been _taught that stealing was bad—but how can it be evil when it makes everyone on the ship so happy? _

River sees things in black and white, right and wrong, but everyone else sees the world in various hues of muddled grey, and she yearns to remember how she saw things before. She almost asks Simon how she used to think, but it would only make him sad, so she stays silent. 

Simon gives her the drugs every morning. Sometimes they leave her with a feeling of clarity, of _connectedness_ to the ship and everyone on it. Sometimes they make her throw up. Simon is always so worried, but he tells her to be patient. 

He says patience is a virtue. River knows better, but doesn't tell him so. Simon has so many virtues, she can allow him this foolishness. He understands it all more clearly than she does, anyway. 


	2. Meditations On the Wonders of a Rock Gar...

Disclaimer: Book and other characters referenced here are not my own creations, but rather those of Joss Whedon and his gang at Mutant Enemy. They are being used without permission and without profit. 

Author's note: The challenge, number 36, was to write a story without dialogue. This one is from Book's point of view during "Ariel," where he's at the Bathgate Abbey the whole time. The Bible verses quoted are from the first chapter of John and Psalm 39.

***

_In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God and the Word was God._

It's easier to think about God here. Here is a quiet, reverent peace utterly unlike the messy, loud chaos aboard _Serenity. Here one does not have to worry about thieves and pirates, for who would bother to rob the aesthetic emptiness of the monastery? Here one does not have to grumble about the lack of fresh food, because the monastery has a vegetable garden. _

The courtyard here is beautiful, the brothers unimposing and understanding. He enjoys the feeling of warm dirt on his hands as he digs through the little patch of herbs. Somehow it is still not the same as the stuffy corridors of the ship, the noisy camaraderie of the kitchen. The walls of the monastery are cold and impersonal compared to the dully gleaming walls of the ship. There's a word for this feeling—he's _homesick—but it frightens him, because no man of God should be at __home in a den of criminals._

_Save me, O God, for the waters have come up to my neck. I sink in deep mire, where there is no foothold…_

It is so easy to fall back into old patterns; to rely on intimidation and threats instead of logic and morals, to let cynicism overtake faith. It is easy to tell oneself to hold fast, but it's not quite as simple to preach to an abandoned flock. Each has his own bone to pick with the Lord: this one shot by a man of the law, this one left to die on a deserted battlefield, this one tortured because of her gifts, this one taken from wealth and a loving family to a world of fear and distrust a lifetime away. He can preach to himself; he has repented of his sins, and he has been redeemed, and he has come to accept what life has given him. What can he say to those who cannot accept their lots, and whose lots _he_ could not accept?

_The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness does not overcome it._

There is so much darkness in his life that he thought he had left behind. The darkness of space, vast and empty and terribly enticing. The darkness of the nooks and crannies of the ship, and the shadows its features cast on its inhabitants. _And, he reflects with a shudder, remembering the feel of cold metal in his hand and the smell of blood, _the darkness in men's hearts. __

He prays for an end to his doubt, but he doubts it will be answered. He prays for answers, but he's not sure what to ask. He prays for serenity, but already his mind is with the ship and its beautiful, flawed souls in the black. 


	3. The Smile

Disclaimer: I don't own these characters, but then, I don't think anyone thought I did. They belong to Joss Whedon and his Merry Men, and I'm using them for entertainment, not profit.

Author's note: This challenge, number 37, required something seen in an unexpected light. I'm big on the Wash/Zoe, so this sprang to mind.

***

_We never should have hired him._

"Dammit, Wash, pick up the pace! Those bastards are right on our tails!"

"I'm aware, thanks. But we're almost out of fuel; gotta wait for the right time to give her some speed if we don't want to end up floating."

_The right time?__ I should have put my foot down. _Serenity_ needs a _real_ pilot. This ain't some game he plays with his yu bun duh__ dinosaurs when he thinks no one's looking. These are our gorram lives!_

A plastic dinosaur fell to the bridge floor, bouncing off her foot. "'Scuse me, Rex." 

_Ain't__ even got the decency to apologize to me.__ Just the damn dinosaur. _

"Could one of you check that screen right—eh, right _there--and tell me the relative position coordinates for the next planet?"_

Zoe moved towards the console, but the captain was closer and reached it first. "Eh, which is the--"

"Little green numbers. Top right-hand corner."

_I knew from the first he was bad news. Stupid mustache, stupid shirt. Stupid leer. I should have told the captain right off, 'This guy gives me a bad feeling. He's unprofessional, he's got bad taste, and he enjoyed that search I gave him a little too much."_

_Oh, that's right. I _did _tell the captain. _

"'Kay. You folks might want to hold on. I'm gonna make a pretty sharp turn, right about…_now!"_

The captain was knocked off his feet and fell right into her, and they both ended up in a pile on the floor. Wash pushed the control stick into the rest position and crossed his arms over his chest, looking very pleased with himself.

_ I'm gonna kill him._

"Not bad. Not bad, if I do say so myself."

_Now how the hell did that help us?_

"Wait just a gorram minute!" the captain said, picking himself up off of Zoe. "Don't you have somethin' you're supposed to be doing?"

"Like what?" Wash asked. He pointed to his screen. "The signals coming off that planet there ought to shield us from their radar. Plus, they're still following our fuel trail off that way."

_I don't buy that _go se—

"Huh. Will you look at that."

_--Until the captain does._

"Good job." The captain gave Wash a clap on the shoulder—maybe a little harder than necessary, from the noise it made, but Wash didn't even wince—and strode out of the bridge, his mind already on the next emergency.

Zoe started to follow the captain, but she stopped at the door for a moment and turned to give Wash some terse, to-the-point warning not to be so cocky next time. The words died on her lips as she looked at him in the bridge's sparse yellow light. He was smiling; not the insinuating smirk he so often gave her, not the broad grin he followed his jokes with, just a satisfied smile for a job well done. It made him look simultaneously younger and more mature, made his face almost…handsome. For a moment Zoe forgot to breathe.

_Well, he's still a clown. But maybe, as a pilot…he'll do all right. _A spot of green plastic on the floor caught her eye, and she picked it up.

"Your dinosaur." She handed it to him, and a smile twitched across her lips before she could stop it. She turned and left before he could respond, her heart pounding.

_He's just the pilot, _she told herself._ Just our sleazy, no-good, Hawaiian shirt-wearing pilot. _Somehow, though, she didn't think she would be able to see him that way anymore.


	4. Farewell

Disclaimer: I did not come up with Simon, River, or any material that came from _Firefly_; that's all the intellectual propert of Joss Whedon and his Merry Men. As nobody ever really thought I did, though, and I am not using the characters for profit, I hope to avoid lawsuits.

***

Simon, against his better judgment, was worried about his sister. He never would have admitted it; she'd have laughed if he had. Still, she'd never been away from home, except for a week of dance camp every summer, and she was still only fourteen. It felt unbelievably strange to be sending his baby sister off into the world alone.

_She worries about Simon. The lab technician who spirited her away last night said that Simon had sent him. Just Simon—her parents have faded away. They don't have the eyes to see. They don't know the language that exists between siblings. They're too old to believe. Only Simon understands. But Simon doesn't know about the men with blue hands or the cutting or the cold voices that echo from the walls or just what River has become…_

River was really growing up, Simon thought with a twinge of regret as he watched her back her clothes. It wouldn't take long; six regular uniforms, one dress uniform, all stiffly pressed and folded and the clothes were packed.

"There is a definite advantage to this dress code," River said, examining her suitcase. "My packing time has been reduced by a factor of at least 12.5."

"That was probably their intention," Simon said, trying to sound lighthearted. "They do run a school full of teenage girls, you know. They don't want to waste time waiting for you to pick out your outfits."

"Don't be ridiculous, Simon." River gave him a scornful glance, making him feel both insulted and warm at the familiarity of it. "They do it for strictly monetary purposes. A typical girl's outfit, even from a department store, doesn't usually exceed 50 credits. These ugly things cost 75 apiece." She sighed. "Ah, well. At least I can take as many book discs as I like."

_She can't take anything, they've told her. There will only be room for her. They tell her to be quiet, not to ask their names or their plans. She doesn't need to. They'll freeze her, stick her in an icy coffin. She will be Snow White, waiting for Simon to wake her. _

Simon put his hands on her shoulders and smiled, blinking away the tears burning at his eyes. He was slightly gratified to see River's eyes shining as well; sometimes he felt as if River didn't need him nearly as much as he needed her. "Write," he said, somewhere between laughing and warning.

"Every day," she said, smiling up at him. "I'm sure I'll have so much to tell you."

"I bet you will." What else could he say? 'Be good' sounded too parental, 'have fun' sounded stupid. "If there are any problems—the class work's boring, the kids are mean--"

She laughed. "Simon! I'll be fine." She put her hands over his, removing them and pulling her brother into a hug. "I'll miss you," she muttered into his vest.

"Yeah." He mentally chided himself—what kind of response was 'yeah?' "I'll miss you too," he added, still feeling rather foolish.

"Right." She pulled out of the embrace and sniffed, straightening up. "I've got to go. Dad's going to yell for me in a minute."

Simon didn't even bother asking how she knew that, and simply waved as she dashed off towards the port door. "Goodbye," he said, feeling rather forlorn.

_"This is it," the man with the beard says. "Get undressed and get in the chamber." She does, wondering at the younger man's blush. Surely he has seen a naked female body before. She likes it in the box. It's soft and cool. It doesn't hurt. "We're just going to put you to sleep," she hears the bearded man say. It no longer matters. Awake or asleep, she is escaping. She is going to see Simon._

_"Goodnight," they say, and she hears the hiss of gases rushing into the box. They are warm on her face, like a thousand mouths breathing on her sensitive skin. The younger one looks nervously at his Approaching Vehicle Screen—not set for optimal performance, she notices, but she doesn't say anything. "__Alliance__ patroller headed this way."_

_"Right," says the bearded one.  "Let's lift off."_

The last thing Simon saw as the transport lifted off was River's face, her nose making a misty smudge on the back window.  He waved and walked away to study, smiling. She'd be all right.

_They close the lid. She falls asleep dreaming of Simon's face._


	5. Purplebelly

Disclaimer: I own none of these characters; they are the intellectual property of Joss Whedon, I would imagine. I am using them without permission or the intent to earn money from their use. 

***

Now, I got nothing against innocence, as a rule. It's a good enough thing for those who got it. Take Kaylee, for instance. She's about as innocent as it is possible for a person to be, and she's always happy, near as I can tell.

It ain't such a happy thing for those of us without it, but maybe that's not a bad thing. I don't have to worry about Zoe, and even Wash and Jayne, because I know they don't shock easy, and they understand the kind of darkness that eats men's souls out here in the black. Kaylee doesn't, and I don't ever want her to.

I wouldn't mind if this purplebelly did, though.

It's clear, by the way he's lookin' at me, that he thinks he's tough. He thinks he's seen it all. Snippy little remarks about smuggling, the way he looks at me when he calls me "Sergeant." He ain't ever been farther away from his clean, happy little planet than he is now, but he thinks he knows every gorram thing there is to know about life out here, about the war, about me.

And I gotta say, his innocence ain't doing me much good. How am I supposed to explain to this kid the fear that crawls up your back when you hear the word _reaver_in these parts, how it tightens your throat and makes it hard to breathe? How do I make him understand why people I know, friends even, killed themselves rather than be taken alive? How am I gonna tell him about the pile of bodies we found on that ship?

I can't. He can't understand. I could talk 'til I was blue in the face, and he'd think I was lying to save my own skin. There's something real ironic about having a green kid in a clean-pressed uniform tell you about "men in his position." How many times has he heard about reaver attacks and laughed? How many times has he had fellas like me sitting across from him, fellas he thinks are cold-blooded murderers, and smirked at them without being scared they'd jump up and knife him?

Too gorram innocent. The reavers are getting bolder these days. May be there'll come a time when Harken's shiny Alliance ship won't scare them off, and he'll see with his own eyes what happens out here to people who ain't alert, who go too far from places they know and dismiss the locals' warnings.

Maybe, someday. But I don't intend to be here when it happens. 

_"It won't matter! You won't find him. But I know where he'll go."_


	6. New World

Disclaimer: I don't own _Firefly_; nor do I own Zoe, Wash, or Mal; they belong to Joss Whedon and co. I'm not making any money from this story, which is good, because I don't have permission to use these characters or their setting. Oh, well.

***

She sat at the kitchen table, nursing a cool cup of tea between her sweating hands. She felt uncomfortably warm; sweat was gathering under her arms and in the curves of her thighs and her clothes chafed roughly against her skin. She had left Wash in bed, lying atop the sheets. Somehow he had twisted out from under them during the night.

_His body is warm on top of hers, his breath moist against her neck. "God," he groans, "that was…" Whatever it was, it is lost in the hollow where her neck meets her shoulder._

It had been too long, really. She could have indulged herself sooner—her desires had been as strong as ever, had come back soon after the war ended, and Lord knew there were enough men willing to lay with her. But she had never given in; she didn't have the time, with the captain to look out for. He needed a strong right arm, not a love-crazy girl with a boy in every port. She said "no" to flirting men so sternly they didn't bother to ask again. She didn't mind. There's only so much room in a person's life, and hers was filled with the captain and the ship and her duty.

But still, it had been too long. And Wash clearly knew what he was doing.

She shivered as the sweat started to dry from her face. She'd gotten so used to Wash staring at her that she'd failed to see that it was more than lust in his eyes, that there was something behind his smirk she'd forgotten how to recognize. 

_"You really think you can make it worth my while?" she says, her voice hard._

_He flushes pink, but not from embarrassment. "Dunno, but I'm willing to try."_

The captain strode into the kitchen and settled into the chair across from her, giving her a severe look. "Well."

"Good morning, Captain," she said coolly. She had a pretty good idea as to what was drawing the captain's mouth together in a hard line, but if he wasn't going to ask, she wasn't going to volunteer the information. Wasn't any of the captain's business, anyhow; Wash was going to get up in an hour and go on flying the ship, and she was going to go on running things like she'd always done, and if they'd been doing something else the night before, the captain didn't need to know.

The captain's eyebrows arched, as if she had played a particularly puzzling card, then furrowed irritably. "So, I take it you had a good night?

She wouldn't call it "good." She would call it frightening, surprising, joyful, embarrassing, intimate. A thousand things she didn't have names for. She felt as if she had caught a glimpse of a life she'd been missing and tasted it just enough to make her ache for more. She felt as if her world had tilted on its axis. She wouldn't call it "good."

"I did, Sir," she said. There were some things, she reflected, that a woman had to keep for herself.

_"You didn't," she says, smiling._

_"'Course I did," he says. He is propped up on one elbow, his other hand tangling itself in her hair. It would be irritating if he pulled at it, but he doesn't, so she lets it rest there, making a warm spot on her back. "There wasn't anything else to do, and everyone was so bored there, so…shadow puppets! You can make them out of cardboard or opaque plasta-film, and if you know the kind of stuff they like, you can keep those guys occupied for hours. You ain't seen nothing 'til you've seen a seven-foot tall, three-hundred pound, tough-as-nails soldier crying like a baby at the end of Romeo and Juliet."_

_"I cried the first time I read that play," she says, remembering._

_She half expects to him to be surprised, and is already exasperated by it. But there's no surprise in his voice when he says, "Yeah, me too. But not like this guy." _

"Are you two gonna make a big thing out of this?" the captain asked, looking wary. "'Cause this isn't the Companion's Temple, and I got enough stuff to worry about without having to worry if I'm gonna lose my first mate to my pilot."

"Don't worry, Sir," she said, standing up. "Not gonna happen."

_The words are so soft, muttered into the pillow next to her, that she barely hears them. "I love you, Zoe." She can feel her whole body stiffen, wondering if he is going to turn his head and look at her and what to say if he does. But he doesn't, and in a moment his breathing falls into the slow rhythm of sleep._

She stood at the bridge and gazed out into the black, counting the planets as they went by. She hoped they'd land on a planet with enough water for a real bath soon. The sweat was drying sticky on her skin and she smelled like Wash's bed.


	7. Carpe Diem

Disclaimer: I do not own these characters; they belong to Joss Whedon and are being used without permission or profit for my own entertainment.

Author's note: It just occurred to me that I haven't thanked any of my reviewers, so, here goes: Myrrhine, Lilian, lazy moi, Neroli, crypticnotions, Starrbaby, and jesse, thanks for reading and taking the time to leave comments. It's very much appreciated.

***

Kaylee didn't think of herself as a person who got angry very often. Sure, every now and then she got _peeved_ with the captain, especially when he was making snippy remarks about Inara or treating Kaylee like a kid. But that wasn't nothin'; soon somebody told the captain what he was doing wrong, and he'd apologize, and everything would be okay. Everybody got riled up some time or other, and Kaylee was no exception, but it usually passed on pretty easily and she went back to being cheerful like she normally was.

But when Simon said "You're the only girl in the world," like it was _nothing_, like he only talked to her because she was his only choice, like it didn't much matter to him who _she_ was, only that she wasn't married or related, Kaylee saw red. She wasn't desperate. She could spend time with anyone she wanted; she'd only chosen Simon because he was so handsome and smart and because she admired what he'd done for his sister. But if he was gonna talk about her like she was nothing special, only the bottom of the barrel, she'd find somebody else to talk to.

And she did. Tracy was handsome, too, if a little goofier looking than Simon. He'd been in the war, and seen a lot, and he'd actually _died_, if only for a little while. She took all the energy she'd been using being mad at Simon and used it on Tracy, first mourning his death and then talking to him, laughing with him, sharing stories with him. 

She was scared when he grabbed her, holding the gun to her head, but she was surprised to find she was a little mad, too. Gorrammit, what had she ever done to him? Nothing but be nice and try to make him feel at home, that's what! 

She was a little mad at herself, too. Simon had tried to apologize, but she'd ignored him, trying to make him feel as small as he'd made her feel. She'd thought she was pretty smart at the time, but she didn't feel too smart now. For all Simon was all stiff and used to being rich and said the wrong thing every gorram time, he'd never hurt her. She knew he wouldn't. He might say something dumb and hurt her feelings, but he wouldn't hold a gun to her head. He was a good man, and she knew it. She didn't know anything about Tracey at all, she realized.

After the funeral, Simon came to her in the engine room. She was supposed to be working on recalibrating the thrusters, but she couldn't concentrate on much of anything, so she was just sitting, thinking about Tracey.

"Kaylee?" Simon asked, his voice all quiet and kind of scared. "I—I know you're probably still angry with me--"

She didn't have room for no more anger. She was just sad and hurt and lonely, just like Simon. "I ain't angry with you, Simon," she said. "You wanna sit a while with me?"

While he was sitting down, trying to find a spot on the floor that wouldn't get his pants dirty, Kaylee couldn't remember why she'd been angry with him before. Why'd she wasted her day like that when she could have been spending it laughing and talking and looking at the cow in a jar with him? Wasn't time for getting tetchy over every little thing; you never knew when death would come for you. It was better to be happy than be angry, she decided, and she didn't have the time for both.


	8. Jayne's Escape

Disclaimer: These characters are Joss Whedon's, not mine. I'm not profiting from this story in any way, except perhaps in personal satisfaction.

***

Jayne liked to think of himself as a brave man. Put a gun in his hand, he'd take on any man alive; cops and feds didn't scare him; nobody met a barroom full of brawlers with less fear. But even Jayne had his limits.

The smell coming from Inara's shuttle—not just the funny incense smell he'd noticed when they'd had to evacuate the ship, but a sweaty, perfumed odor that he easily identified as _Inara_ and_ Sex_—sent shivers of mixed pleasure and uneasiness down his spine. He had nothing against sex, that was for sure, but he liked it straightforward, him and a woman and any kind of remotely horizontal surface. Companion sex, he thought uneasily, was a whole 'nother kettle of fish.

He stepped forward and reached up his hand to knock, but the door was open, with only a thin curtain of beads between him and that bewitching scent. "Inara?" he called nervously. Without waiting for an answer, he stepped through. The beads made a _swish _as he passed through them, passing coolly over his bare shoulders. He suppressed a shiver.

_Gorram__,_ he thought as he looked around the shuttle, _whorin__' must pay real good!_ The room was smoky and dim, but the brass incense burner and rich wall hangings were still visible. Their obvious expense only heightened Jayne's nervousness; he wasn't used to all this fancy _go_ _se_. Added to this was the knowledge that this wasn't just for Inara's pleasure, but for her _clients_. Knowing that men (and the occasional woman) lay down on that big, comfortable-looking bed and…well, _humped _Inara—it was enough to make certain areas of a man's anatomy twinge a bit.

Inara stepped from the bathroom, wringing water from her still wet hair. "What is it?" she said irritably. "I thought I'd made it perfectly clear that I want you to knock before you enter. My client's only just left and I'd like to wash up in privacy."

Jayne barely heard a word. Inara was wearing a satin robe—some deep, rich color between brown and red and embroided with little black patterns. She'd tied it loosely around her waist, and it was slipping just a bit_._ He could _almost_ make out the curve of one very fine-looking breast. 

Inara noticed his stare and rolled her eyes. She pulled up her robe and tightened it, somehow managing to turn what was meant to be a brisk, businesslike gesture into something even more attractive than the breast. Jayne felt his breath start to quicken. Oh, this was…this was seven different levels of wrong! His trousers were uncomfortably tight, and he could feel the blood coursing harshly through his body, but worse than that was the _fear._ He knew all about Companions and their wiles. For all he knew, she was doing it on purpose, making him let his guard down so she could…pounce, or something. The scent of smoke and sex was suddenly overpowering.

He took a deep breath and muttered, "I gotta go…do somethin'." He turned around without meeting Inara's eyes and pushing his way past the curtain of beads. He was so bent on escaping he didn't see Wash coming down the same path and bumped right into him.

"Whoa!" Wash said, putting out a hand to steady himself against the wall. "Watch it!"

"Sorry," Jayne panted, too shaken to even growl at the smaller man.

Wash was perplexed at the apology, an unusual concession from Jayne, but let it go and asked, "Did you tell Inara about dinner?"

"Forgot," Jayne said quickly, and hurried past.

"Forgot? But, but, that's the whole reason we sent you up here!" Wash called after him. Giving up, he slapped his thigh, still rather bemused. "Man, the pilot's work is never done," he said to himself. He'd planned to go wash up, but seeing as how Jayne had been lax in his duties, he decided a quick detour to Inara's shuttle was in order.

"Hey, Inara," he said, pushing his head through the curtain. "Soup's on. You coming down?"

Inara looked up from combing her hair and said, "In a minute, Wash." Wash stood awkwardly between the corridor and the shuttle for a moment, finally summoning his courage and stepping inside. 

"Hey…" Wash asked, pointedly looking anywhere but Inara's robe, which was coming open again. "Did Jayne just come by here?" 

"Yes," Inara said with an amused smile. "I think he was a little intimidated. I haven't had a chance to clean up the shuttle, and to be frank, it smells rather…"

"Brothel-like?" Wash laughed. "_That's_ why he went running down the hall? And he calls _me_ chicken!" His mirth subsiding somewhat, he sighed and said, "Guess I'll let you get dressed now. See you at dinner." 

He was still snickering to himself as he walked back to his room to wash up.__


	9. Pilgrimage

Disclaimer: Don't own Book, don't pretend to. Just using him for my own personal fulfillment, not trying to steal food from the mouths of Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy.

Author's notes: For the "new beginnings" challenge. Also, I'd like to thank Cassie E—_Six_ reviews? I think that's more than my mom's ever given me!—and Trisana McGraw for their feedback on the last couple of chapters. I know, I'm a crappy review responder. Not that great a reviewer, either, now that I think about it. But I honestly do appreciate getting comments from readers, so thank you.

He hadn't been in a church in years. Truth be told, he hadn't felt the need; he had better things to do on Sunday mornings, and he didn't need some the feeling that some mystical godlike eyes were staring down on him, disapproving.

He didn't feel them now, though. The whole church felt different, like the place knew him, and was saying, "Where you been? I've been expecting you!" It was a little creepy, but better than staying at home with the nightmares.

He'd slept like a baby for years, but in the last few weeks, he'd been suffering from insomnia. He kept getting into bed, jumping out of it, jumping in again, sure that _this_ time sleep would come. For reasons he didn't understand, his mind was troubled with images of blood and dead, staring eyes. He recognized them all.

Well, criminals got what they had coming, didn't they? If they were gonna play fast and easy with the law, there wasn't any reason he shouldn't play fast and easy with _them_. At least, that's what he'd told himself. _Maybe_ he shouldn't have killed the last target's whole family, as he was wearing a mask and they probably couldn't have identified him anyway. Still, there was no sense in taking risks.

His caution wasn't helping him now. The last few days, the dead started speaking to him. _Monster, _they called him. _Inhuman._He didn't understand why he let them get to him so much—he'd been called a lot worse than "monster" in his days. Something, though, something about their raspy dead voices and their sad eyes was ruining him, melting the cool professionalism that had been his trademark. Maybe it was because some of them were so young—killing kids had always been one of his least favorite parts of the job.

He didn't understand why this was all happening now. He'd been doing his job for years without a twinge from his conscience, and suddenly every gorram person he'd ever killed was back to haunt him. He couldn't sit for a moment without wondering who from his long and colorful past was going to pop up next. He called his doctor, who told him to get more sleep. He considered, briefly, going to a psychiatrist, but realized that it wouldn't change anything. Maybe, just maybe, he was getting too old for the job.

He thought, after he called up Boss and told him he quit, that would be enough. But the nightmares still came, and now they were calling him "coward." Tell the truth, that one kind of stung.

Then, last night, without even really realizing what he was doing, he'd gotten on a transport for the nearest church. As the transport whirred by in the darkness, he wondered why he hadn't thought of it before. Place like that, nobody would ask his name, it wouldn't cost a cent, and maybe he'd get some measure of peace. Or maybe, given his line of work over the last decade, the roof of the church would fall in on him in an act of divine retribution. Either way, he'd be rid of the nightmares.

So…here he was, staring at the plain wooden altar. Now what?

"Can I help you?" He jumped at the voice, his hand automatically reaching for his blaster, but he forced it down before he actually drew the weapon. It was only a young Shepherd—no harm.

"I…" He carefully considered his next words. Just how far was he willing to go to make the nightmares go away? _As far as it takes._ "I was wondering…how do you go about joining the church?"

"Oh," the Shepherd said, sounding surprised and pleased. "Do you want to become a member?"

"No, I…I want to…" What _did _he want? "I just want some peace of mind."

"Well, you've come to the right place," the Shepherd said, sitting down on the pew next to him. "I'm Shepherd Matthews."

"I'm…" He suddenly wished he had another name, a name the Boss and his colleagues couldn't track him by. More than anything else, he wanted some time to think without being pressured to return to the job.

"It's okay," the Shepherd said. "You can be whoever you want to be, here."

He'd always thought he was all right with who he was. He was good at his job, he was a good citizen (more or less), he was an okay friend to those who didn't double-cross him. But somehow, he felt uncomfortable sitting in this church with blood on his hands. Maybe giving another name would make him another person, a person who'd never killed anybody and slept easy at night because nobody had anything against him. He ran his hand over the bible sitting on one side of the pew, and met the Shepherd's eyes. "Book," he said. "My name's Book."


	10. Beginners' Luck

Disclaimer: River, Simon, Jayne, and Wash are all the intellectual property of Joss Whedon and the gang and are being used without permission or the intention of profiting from their use.

"Now, this here game's all about reading people," Jayne said with what Simon felt was an unpleasant leer at River. "The cards don't matter; that's all luck. It's all about lookin' at the other fellas and knowing what they got before they figure out what you got."

"Yeah, you're just a bottomless font of wisdom," Wash said impatiently. "You don't mind if we play cards, do you?"

Jayne made a face, but he grabbed the deck from the center of the table and tapped it hard against the edge. Without shuffling it, he laid the top card in front of him. "All right, apples are tall."

Wash squirmed, and Simon wondered if he played cards very often. He didn't seem to have much of a poker face. "Eh…I'll take two."

"Kay," Jayne said, staring at his hand with a poorly disguised grin.

Wash waited a moment for Jayne to give him the cards, then, sighing, reached out to take them himself. "Some dealer you are," he muttered.

"You?" Jayne said roughly to River. She said nothing, looking intently at her cards.

Jayne scowled darkly at her, and it was only a matter of time before he shouted at her or (_heaven forbid_) reached out to poke her. Simon, eager to prevent a meltdown, called from the counter, "It's your turn, _mei-mei__._"

"I know, Simon," she said, not looking up from her cards. "I'm thinking." After a moment, and with an air of leisurely satisfaction, she said, "One." Jayne, still irritated, slapped it down in front of her. She picked it up, her face unreadable.

Jayne peered through his cards. "Looks like Wash gets the tall."

Wash groaned. "Why do I even bother?"

Jayne gave him a smug grin. "You fold?"

"Eh…." He thought about it for a moment. "No. Might as well have one more turn." He picked up the tall card and glared furiously at his hand. "I guess I bet…garbage duty."

"Ha!" Jayne said triumphantly. "Less garbage for me!"  He lay down his cards—a plum, an cherry blossom, an orange, a dragon, and a peach. Strait flush. "Beat that!"

River grinned. "Royal flush," she said, laying out her own cards.

It only took a moment for the triumph in Jayne's face to turn into a red, boiling anger. "Gorrammit, I think you're cheating!"

Wash snorted derisively, and Simon was stung at this attack on his sister's honor, but River remained perfectly calm. "I don't have to cheat," she said. "I have better cards. You've been grinning surreptitiously at me and Wash for the last four hands, but I knew you didn't have an apple because I have one, and you put one down two hands ago, and Wash already had one, but then you gave him another. You wouldn't look so confident if you didn't have something good, but you couldn't possibly have a royal flush without an apple, so I put down my plum--" she indicated with a flick of her finger the plum Jayne had just put down— "and picked up a dragon instead. Royal flush. I win." She scooped the pile of papers into her lap and sorted through them gleefully. Simon wondered if he would be able to persuade her to let him cash in on some of those chores.

"Shiny," Wash said, looking impressed. "Remind me not to play cards against you any time soon."

"Beginners' luck," Jayne said sullenly.


	11. Juggling Geese

Disclaimer: I own neither Wash, Zoe, nor the geese-juggling planet. They are the intellectual property of Joss Whedon and whoever else he shares them with; I use them merely for entertainment purposes.

Author's notes: I took a break over the summer; this challenge for this one was to include the lines "This seemed like a good idea because…" and "I was improvising!" In a long-belated expression of gratitude, thanks to Cassie E, alyseci5, and jebbypal for reading and reviewing. It's always nice to hear from people.

* * *

"Honey, are you sure this isn't going to be more trouble than it's worth?" Zoe asked, giving her husband an arch look. It was one of those days when she felt more like a babysitter than a wife, when Wash got just a bit too antsy and seemed trapped in goofy, eager little kid-mode. Zoe could never decide whether these days were an amusement or an annoyance.

"Oh, come on! It'll be fun!" He had a baby goose in each hand and two more peeking out of the pockets of his Hawaiian shirt. He tossed one lightly into the air experimentally; it made a noise of annoyance. "Hmm…now how did they do this again?"

Zoe heard a muffled snort behind her, and turned. A small crowd of locals were gathering around to look at the spectacle. The snorter was the man who'd sold them the geese—he was now whispering something to his wife, who shook her head.

"Now, this one goes…up, and—ouch!" Wash waved a pinched finger around. Apparently the goslings weren't taking kindly to this whole juggling business. "Zoe, babe, could you lend me a hand?"

"Uh-uh. This was _your_ brilliant plan. I wanted to stay aboard ship, download a vid, but you just _had_ to find something ridiculous to do."

"Well, we'll see how jealous _you_ are when I master this. Wash, Master of Geese-Juggling, they will call me! Or maybe Goose-Juggling. I don't know. It sounds better, but there's more than one geese. Goose. Oh, maybe Wash, Master Fowl-Juggler! That sounds pretty good."

"Right," Zoe said skeptically, as one of the goslings fluttered out of Wash's pocket and landed on his shoe.

The townspeople had obviously elected the little man with the thin red mustache as their spokesperson. "Ma'am?" he said, approaching Zoe cautiously, "what's that fella doing?"

"He's juggling geese," Zoe said flatly, keeping all traces of amusement out of her voice.

"He's—he's what, now?"

"Juggling geese!" Wash cried. "I've been on a planet where they actually do this! Really!" The gosling on his shoe tried to fly back up to his brothers, but he could only flutter a few inches from the ground before falling again. The one in Wash's right hand started a brave attempt to scale his arm.

"Oh. Um. I see." The little man gave Wash an alarmed look and went back to the crowd. They all stared at him intensely. Zoe wondered if it would upset her warrior woman image too much if she were to suddenly burst out laughing. _Better not_, she decided. _At least right now they think one of us is sane_.

"Sweetie!" she called, trying to make sure Wash heard her over the demanding cries of the birds. "Put the geese down and we'll go on back to the ship. Shepherd's probably picked up some fresh produce, so can have ourselves a little feast before the rest get back."

"Mmmm…tempting, but no!" Wash had picked up the gosling on his shoe and now threw it on a sort of diagonal arc into his other hand. It protested, loudly. "I totally had a plan for today. I was gonna take you for a romantic lunch, but then, you know, they didn't have anyplace that wasn't really expensive or really gross. And I was gonna take you swimming, but the water's all polluted. So, I had to think of something else."

"But geese?" They had escaped the confining clutches of Wash's fingers and were now chasing each other around his feet. "And this seemed like a good idea because…?"

"I was improvising!" Wash gave up trying to catch the goslings for a moment and sighed, slapping his thighs. "But hey! You can't tell me you haven't had a fun time!"

Zoe couldn't contain her snort of laughter. "You know you're crazy, right?"

"Well, I'm neither a hero nor a genius nor a drooling ape man, so I had to have some distinguishing characteristic." He waved a hand at the geese, who were running off towards the market where he'd bought them. "You're free, little geese! Run! Be happy, and avoid being eaten by cats!"

Crazy, all right. "Come on, dear," she said. "Let's go find something to eat."


	12. Lost In the Woods

Disclaimer: I don't own Mal, who is the intellectual property of Joss Whedon. Just having a bit of fun with him.

Author's note: This story was for the "Fairy Tale" challenge. That was actually quite a while ago, but, lazy bum that I am, I haven't uploaded the story until now. Thanks so much to shadowmoon1, Neroli, and Aya Rose for reviewing. It's always good to hear your writing is being enjoyed.

* * *

Once upon a time there lived a boy with his mother on a farm. The boy had no father—whether he was dead or had been cursed by evil witches or had simply vanished like the shoemaker's elves, his mother never said. Whenever he asked, she would tell the boy stories.

She told him the story of Hansel and Gretel one day. Saddened after hearing it, he asked his mother why the father would leave his children alone in the woods.

His mother pressed her lips together until they were almost white, looking strangely angry. In a cold, quavering voice, she said to him, "Everyone gets left behind sooner or later. You don't know where or who's gonna do it, but it happens to everyone."

The boy was frightened and fascinated by this prospect, but he knew his mother would never abandon him. Before long he forgot the whole thing, and after a while, he stopped asking about his father.

When the boy grew up, he was filled with a desire to go on a quest of his own, rescue his own princess and have his own happily ever after. When the Independent army came around, looking for volunteers to fight the Alliance, the boy quickly joined them, imagining himself as a knight in shining armor, a hero saving freedom and justice from the maw of the beast.

He was shocked to learn that war was nothing like the stories he'd been told as a boy. The people dying weren't the wicked stepmothers or malevolent trolls, they were the soldiers he'd eaten with, trained with, sat around the fire and told stories with. The dragons were huge starships and laser cannons; no matter how hard a man tried, it wasn't the kind of battle you emerged from as a hero.

Gradually, the soldier came to understand how wars like this were survived. He hardened himself to the dead but tied himself even closer to the ones who lived. He learned to laugh to keep himself from crying, and he learned to swallow his fear before it could sink in and tear him apart. He left his own trail of breadcrumbs to lead him away from the battlefield.

But no trail of breadcrumbs could lead him away from Serenity Valley. It was like he'd always imagined Hell being—full of fire and death and mud, full of screams and the shrill whine of lasers powering up, full of unhappy endings. The soldier clung to hope, telling himself that his army, his band of brothers, would never leave him behind. All he had to do was hold on.

He watched them fly away with tears in his eyes and muttered under his breath, "Well, Momma said it happens to everyone." He let out a cry, just one, and went to man his laser cannon.

He imagined the dead were the only ones on that battlefield who lived happily ever after. Everyone else was still lost in the woods.


End file.
